


The House of Stone and Light

by melagan, neevebrody



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 10:36:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1425418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melagan/pseuds/melagan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/neevebrody/pseuds/neevebrody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>600 years ago in medieval Europe, male couples could be joined together, allowing the mutual sharing of their worldly goods. In another time and place, this civil contract, known as affrèrement, will change the lives of two monks – one an avowed ascetic and one with an insatiable thirst for the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The House of Stone and Light

**Author's Note:**

> betas : The kick-ass team of Mischief and Neevebrody

~*~

No, no, no – he couldn't go through with it. Ignoring the way his heart was pounding in his chest, John leapt up and smacked the bowl of porridge out of McKay's reach.

Brother Rodney McKay sat staring at him, the tapered bone spoon a mere inch from his mouth. The wooden bowl rolled across the stone floor, ignored for long moments while John watched the shock in Rodney's face turn to pure stubbornness.

"Put the spoon down, Brother. Please." John, horrified at his actions, tucked his clenched fists into the wide sleeves of his habit. He sent up a prayer that the rough, black wool would keep Rodney from noticing how badly his hands were shaking.

Instead, McKay held up his spoonful of thick porridge and inspected it closely. "Moonflower seeds, Brother John? For mercy's sake, some imbecile must have scattered them all through the grain. Are they trying to poison us? How did you know?"

With narrowed eyes, he took in John's clean bowl and correctly judged his guilty face. "Saint's heart, John, did you do this? Are you trying to kill me? You're trying to kill me. Why? Who sent you?"  


John stood frozen, shocked by his moment of weakness. Reasons and prayers danced through John's skull but no answers came to his tongue.

McKay waved his spoon in disgust. "I can't say I blame you for not talking, Brother. Let me see if I can deduce a reasonable assumption. It can't be my royal, motley-minded excuse of a sire who sent you. He washed his hands of this bastard son when he consigned me to the monastery at the tender age of five. Oh, spare your pity – it was the best thing that could have happened to me."

"Hmm," Rodney continued. "Someone within the Congregacio's hierarchy, then. Someone I've made nervous or insulted." He tapped his chin as a light flush crept up his cheeks. "That um, doesn't actually narrow the list."

"Do you trust Abbot Woolsey?" John asked. It was impossible not to notice how uneasy the question made Brother Rodney as his face turned from flushed to pale in a matter of seconds. "He sent me to check up on you. He's… concerned."

"Concerned enough for murder? Surely not. He assigned me to this post on the outskirts of this god-forsaken village. I know he felt I needed a lesson in humility, but the punishment benefits us both. I get to do my research in peace, and the abbot no longer has to concern himself with the novitiates bursting into tears at the drop of a hymnal." Raising one finger, he added, "Not all of that was my fault."

John sat down and took the spoon from Rodney's hand. "We need to talk."

"Of course we do. First, you fool me by a ruse, showing interest in my studies, then you try to murder me. Why wouldn't I want to cozy up with you for a nice chat?"

"There now, Brother," John put his hand on Rodney's shoulder, leaning close enough to catch the scent of clean skin. "Haven't you heard of – turning the other cheek?"

Brother Rodney glared.

"Will you at least sit and listen to me?" John asked. "I could make you some of that kahve you like so well."

"How – where did you get...?"

"I asked the right questions. That merchant friend of yours has been holding out on you."

"Radek, that sneaky Bohemian. I should have known," Rodney huffed. "Very well. I'll hear your explanation." He lifted his chin and looked John square in eye. "After you finish brewing the kahve. Oh, and Brother John, I take mine without poison, if you please."

John winced but had to admit he deserved that barb and more besides. "No poison. I promise."

***

He set the water to boil, an easy enough task. Rodney liked the convenience of heated water and all John had to do was stir up the coals and add tinder to the embers. Unlike other dwellings of its type, the good Brother had devised an ingenious system for diverting the wood smoke to the outside.

John shook his head. This was another one of Rodney's engineering experiments. And it was one more example of why he was finding it so hard to carry out his duty. Everything he'd seen the brother do thus far only made the townspeople's lives easier or safer.  


He carefully dropped the dark beans into the stone mortar and tried to settle his mind. Somehow, he had to find a way out of this mess. He had failed in his orders, dismally so. Dear Brother Rodney should have been dead by his hand days ago.

The repetitive grind of the pestle wasn't enough to quiet John's thoughts as he recalled, word for word, the command that had brought him there.

***

"John Sheppard, respected brother of the Menaran Order of Assassins, the Council has called you forth because we have a special assignment… one that needs your exacting talents."

"Abbot Woolsey is concerned. He has made a specific request that we send someone to attend to Brother Rodney McKay of Arum and advise him to rein in a few of his… more vigorous activities."

John nodded and patiently waited for the Protectorate to get to the real reason for his summons.

A third officiate spoke up, "As it stands, Abbot Woolsey tries the patience of this Council and now we sense he is trying to shield this man. However, the Protectorate concurs this McKay is an extreme danger to the Congregacio."

"He possesses the Word of Ascension," another of the Council members cried. "We need no other reason to call you to do your duty. Oh, the abbot pretends the text is safe and intact, hidden away in the abbey as was his charge to do so – but now we know otherwise. We have reports of common villagers with a centralized water system and a declining death rate – do you think this a product of miracles, Brother John?"

With a sardonic lift of his eyebrow, John asked, "Have you lost your faith in miracles, then?"

"This Council cannot take the chance that a heretical text has fallen into the hands of someone of – shall we say – questionable mind. In this, Abbot Woolsey has failed us. He shows more concern for blasphemers and his own hide than protecting the church."

John nodded curtly.

"You are to meet with the abbot, listen to his concerns, and accept the role of intercessor, but your chief order comes from this Council – silence this lunatic monk and bring the Word of Ascension to us. By your vows, the command of this Council is your bond of obedience. Do not fail."

***

Yes, there would be repercussions for his dereliction, and somehow, he was going to have to find a way to keep them both alive. John sighed. Well, Brother Rodney was constantly proclaiming his genius; maybe he'd have an idea.

As the dark, rich aroma of the foreign brew began to fill the small house, John looked around the meager dwelling. He wasn't ready to meet Rodney's eyes just yet, let alone explain why he should still murder him.

Sparsely furnished, as befitting a man of the robe, two things in the open room gave him pause: a long wooden shelf jammed with clay jars of assorted sizes and the bed. The bed was particularly unusual under the circumstances. It was big enough for two, and John would wager he'd find its thick mattress stuffed with feathers not straw. The coverlet of rich, jewel-toned fabric was simply not the sort of thing one would expect of a man keeping vows of celibacy. Swallowing harshly, John rubbed at the odd ache in his chest.

"Tell me, Brother John, have you always been an assassin for the Congregacio or am I a special cause?" Rodney asked, startling John into almost spilling the kahve. 

"I'll tell you what I can," John said dryly as he set the mugs on the table. 

Rodney pushed his cup over towards John and took his cup in its stead. "Nothing personal, Brother. Mere precaution. I'm quite aware old habits die with difficulty, and since you came here from a cloister of assassins, I'd like to make sure that if one of us should perish in gut-wrenching agony – it will be you, not me."

John didn't even bother to hide the slow smile creeping across his face. "Caution becomes you. It's a good thing because we're both going to need it." As he watched Rodney blow across the top of his kahve, John plunged into his explanation.

"Your friend, Abbot Woolsey, put in a request to have someone check up on you. I made sure I was available to fill that request. You see, Brother Rodney, the Protectorate knows about the Word of Ascension."

If Rodney found that remark was worrisome, it barely showed. There was only a slight tremor of his hand as the brother put down his cup. 

John leaned forward, looming over Rodney's face, his voice turning cold and intent. "They know you have the book and you are making them very, very nervous. My assignment, my cause, is to eliminate any chance of that text, or its teachings, falling into the wrong hands."

"They're wrong," Rodney said adamantly, his chin lifting as if daring Brother John to contradict him. "The Word of Ascension contains knowledge that can be used to help our flock, not bring harm."  
"And all of this knowledge comes from the Word of Ascension and its teachings." John scowled. "You don't even deny it!"

Rodney sat back and folded his arms across his chest. "Why should I deny it?"

"It's sacrilege!" John insisted. "Can't you see using this knowledge creates a danger to the Congregacio?"

"A healthy populace? Oh yes, huge, enormous danger there. I sit here trembling from the sheer terror of it."

John groaned, getting to his feet, shoving his chair aside. "How do you think the Word of Ascension will fare if it falls into the wrong hands?"

"Is that what you think of me? You have seen it for yourself. Since your stay here, you have watched me aid the sick, heal fevers—you've seen the benefits of clean water made available to the entire village."

John chose not to think, only to plow ahead in his attempt to make Brother Rodney understand. "What would happen to the Congregacio if every man believed he could leave his mortal flesh behind and gain access to Heaven without its guidance? Think of the chaos if all humanity believed themselves gods."

"Brother John," Rodney said, pinning John with his gaze, his voice soft and gentle. "We all have a light within us."

"The light of the Divine," Brother John allowed.

"Yes," Rodney sighed. "But do you not believe a man can have a light of his own? One that is uniquely his, one that imbues him with his own perfection?"

A chill arched up John's spine. It was one thing to harbor a thought deep enough to call his own; it was something else to hear it voiced by another, as if Brother Rodney had reached into his soul. "You could be tortured for such blasphemy." And if thoughts were merely unspoken beliefs, was he safe himself? Rodney was right, old ways did die with difficulty. John shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Rodney stood, his fingertips resting on the edge of the heavy wooden table. "Look at you," he chided. "You kill in the name of fear." He pointed in the direction of John's chest. "I know of your Order—soldiers who no longer have battles to fight, yet still possess such skills that are always useful to some."

John could feel heat ring his neck as he shot a pointed finger toward the door. "You make these people think you are the reason for their healing or their good harvest. You flaunt this knowledge while giving no credit to the Divine. I warn you, brother, you come perilously close to the blasphemous teachings of Athar."  
Brother Rodney dismissed the comment with a wave and charged ahead, hands spread out in front of him. "Try to perceive – is this knowledge divine or my ability to understand it? You look at the Word and see heresy; I look at it and see freedom.

"John," he continued. "I do not dispute the existence of the Divine, nor do I accept the great light is only for a select few – that the Congregacio is the sole arbiter of my salvation."

John listened, trying not to hear the words. Those were words of the tempter – dangerous words. No, this man was clearly a lunatic, and if he, as assassin for the Protectorate, did not eliminate this threat, others would be sent. Others who would not pause to look into those blue eyes or lend an ear to the incessant meanderings of logic and complaint. Others who would not be so kind.

John knew his superiors – they would not stop until this McKay of Arum had been silenced completely. The Order would waste no opportunity to exploit the errant monk as an example, and he would not let that happen.

Better it be quick and merciful. He drew the dagger from his robes. Yes, it was better to do it himself. Swift and certain.

"Are you even listening to—what is that?"

Rodney surely saw his intent, yet he offered no resistance. "My blade would be mercy, Brother." John tensed, ready to be that compassionate release.

The chair scuffed loudly on the floor as Rodney stood and pulled his shoulders up square. "After all you've seen, all I've shared? Then do what you came for, assassin," he sneered. "If my only choice is to live in a world shrouded in darkness and ignorance or face your blade, I – I welcome death." He took a brave and foolish step forward as John took one backward.

McKay's chin came up and his eyes sparked indignant fury. "You will do me a kindness to spare me from fools and narrow-minded men." 

Staring into defiant eyes, John lowered his blade and realized he was very, very afraid for Brother Rodney.

***

Damnation! He should have killed him the first day, before… John stood outside and peered in through the small, dingy window. Rodney was sitting at the table, whittling fresh bark from a willow branch and acting as if John hadn't just come within inches of slitting his throat. The man was infuriating. Infuriating, compelling, and making thoughts swirl in John's head – thoughts he was sure he'd conquered years ago. 

The muscles in John's jaw tightened as he ground his teeth together. What was it about this man that made it impossible for John to carry out his assignment? His damned logic? The way he hummed while he worked? He thought of the morning he'd awoken to soft, off-key chanting and found McKay outside in the small gravel courtyard surrounded by twittering birds, a gaggle of geese, and a mangy cat.

The cat had looked as if escape was the only thing on its mind, spitting and hissing as Rodney was rubbing some green, gelatinous concoction onto its hindquarter. Yet, he handled the animal with gentleness and crooning litany, as a mother might a babe. No one would have believed him mad then.

Then there were the nights spent by the fire with the Word. Surely as much time as Rodney spent poring over that book, the brother must know it from memory. Yet John could not forget the look of wonder on Rodney's face – eyes wide and sparkling as he relegated John with the concepts of its teachings.

Confused and uncertain, John found a private spot in the garden to pray. He closed his eyes and bowed his head under the noonday sun. Be it moments or hours gone by, he couldn't say, only that he was lost in his heart's reflection. Until, with a gasp, he felt the calling of his sect fall from him like dry ash blown away by the wind.

His training would stay with him always, but a new need pressed upon his heart like a righteous cause. He drew in a shuddering breath. How in Saint's name was he going to convince McKay – after nearly killing him twice – that his new commitment now lay in protecting him?

"You're thinking too hard." Rodney appeared at his elbow. "And standing out in the sun like this can't be good for you. Come back inside; you can help me brew this tincture for reducing fevers."

John regarded him solemnly. "You have forgiven me?"

"Don't make me sound holier than I am, Brother. I am quite aware that if it was truly in your heart to kill me, I would have been dead that first night. Besides, I think I might have come up with a solution to our mutual problem."

***

Not surprisingly, John found himself making more kahve. At the rate Brother Rodney was going through the precious roasted beans, they would need to make a trip to the merchant's soon.

"Not going to switch the mugs on me again?" John asked, setting out the cups.

"Not going to put a knife to my throat this time?" Rodney snapped back. He softened his words with a wry smile. "Seriously, Brother, we are going to have to make peace between us, and I believe I have a way. Have you ever heard of the affrèrement ceremony?" 

Was Rodney seriously considering…"I–you intend for us… a civil binding?" John tried to force the air back into his lungs without being obvious. "You think—"

"I think," Rodney interrupted, "that the Protectorate will be appeased by learning that you have found a way to keep me close and make sure I don't teach any of that disturbing heresy. And, what's more, according to the rite, everything I own will be yours as well."

"You're – you'd do that for me?"

"Think about it, Brother. All that is mine will be yours, including my studies. Your superiors will have to think carefully before they excommunicate you for failing to kill me. Why get rid of me as long as they believe they can control the book through you? This is the closest those self-righteous asses will ever come to getting their hands on the Word of Ascension."

"And what do you gain from this?" John asked.

"You mean besides being not dead?"

John glared. He scratched his chin and wondered if the sun had not truly addled him. If there was a way around Brother Rodney's plan, he couldn't see it.

***

Arrangements were made. The abbot sent his regrets and a burro loaded with a case of the monastery's best wine, promising to smooth the way for Brother Rodney's sake, even if he couldn't attend as a witness.

The planned ceremony was – not small, and John was uncomfortable with the prospect of so many witnesses. He finished unpacking the wine and contemplated clearing the table from dinner, watching Rodney's hands fly in wide arcs as he tried to convince him of the necessity.

"I know this is probably more people than in your entire cloister, Brother John. Heaven knows, I hardly expected Radek Zelenka to roust most of the townspeople for this event, especially on my account, but we can make this work in our favor." Rodney paused from pacing long enough to smile encouragingly. "It's quite genius, in fact, which is why I'm surprised it didn't occur to me first. We need as many to acknowledge our bond as possible."

"You want to make sure word of our union gets to the Protectorate."

"Yes!" Rodney shook a finger at him. "Your delay in murdering me – and understand, I am extremely grateful for that – makes it a certainty they'll send another in your place. He could be here before we even have the chance to exchange the vows."

John let the words wash over him, knowing Brother Rodney had the right of it. It helped to reach into the folds of his robe and comfort himself by wrapping his hand around the hilt of his blade. He would have no hesitation in protecting his…his…. "What do I call you?"

"Hmmm, what?" Rodney asked.

"After the ceremony, what do I call you?

Rodney seemed at a loss for words – a first since John had arrived. "Oh. We're um…husbands, I suppose."

A smile curved the corner of John's mouth.

"Do not look at me that way; I am not the wife and neither are you." Rodney crossed his arms with a huff, but the color still rose in his cheeks.

"Still, we'll be bonded?" John asked, as something warm rose in his chest.

"In every way that's important, yes."

John nodded. "Make whatever arrangements you need." He turned on his heel and stalked outside, surprised by his reaction. Satan be damned, how had he gone from ruthless to protective to possessive so world-tiltingly fast? It had to be all Brother Rodney's fault. 

***

The next morning, John sought seclusion in the small back garden and knelt there for what seemed like hours. The aroma of dried sage, along with wildflowers, other herbs, and the occasional whiff of animal dung teased the air and served to ground him. Earthy and real, they reminded him of another time, another place, and the garden suited his purpose as if he had been led there by an unseen hand. 

Though his prayers brought him no closer to understanding, his duty finally seemed clear. He emerged just as the second daystar rose above the horizon. Its coppery light showed John just how short the shadows had grown and he realized it was nearly midday.

He was a half step through the stone doorway when he halted in his tracks. Rodney was in the middle of taking a bath. He stood in a wide, wooden barrel of a tub, pouring water down over himself. Steam rose from the tub, carrying the fragrance of fresh herbs with it.

John's mouth went dry. Water ran in wide rivulets down the back of Rodney's neck and shoulders, all the way down to – oh, thank goodness – Rodney was wrapping a cloth around his middle. John stepped back outside, swallowing his gasp. He stood, blinking away that last image of damp linen and the way it moved, clinging to Brother Rodney's thighs and bottom in a way that left very little to his imagination.

He gave himself a few minutes, time for Brother Rodney to dress, and with a gentle cough, entered again. John gave a wry shake of his head. Upon leaving for this mission, his sect considered him one of their elite – a shadow in the night, deadly and impossible to track. Now, after just a fortnight spent with Brother Rodney, he found himself reduced to announcing his presence.

"Oh, there you are." Rodney said. "I saved you some hot water. Do you have any idea how fortunate we are that the circuit magistrate is here today? Otherwise, we'd have to wait six months, or go to another village, and that would take days of traveling rough."

John considered it more suspicious than fortuitous, but decided he'd keep that thought to himself for the time being.

Full of annoying good cheer, Rodney clapped his hand down on John's shoulder. "I'll give you a bit of privacy while I round up clothes. We have less than three hours before the ceremony. Saint's blood, I have no idea how Abbott Woolsey managed all these affairs on such short notice, but we can be glad for it. "

"This bath," John asked, "Can we leave out the… what is that?"

"Sandalwood, tava leaf, and oak moss, milled into a cake, but this is all I have for soap. It was a gift from the miller's wife. Not that I deserved it. I never prayed so hard in my life for the midwife to show up in time. It was surely by divine providence that I didn't drop the infant."

As somehow Brother Rodney managed to look both put upon and proud of this accomplishment, John couldn't help but smile.

Indicating his bath was ready, Rodney handed John a rough sponge. "Use this. I've found it good for the skin and um, well…"

John watched, fascinated, as the brother's fair skin turned pink under his gaze. Without another word, Rodney turned and left John alone.

A bath. Of course, he took baths. Any assassin could hardly be good at his job if his stink arrived ahead of him. But bathing was a necessity. John scowled and lifted his arm to take a sniff. So, yes, he could use a bath, but a basin of cold water would suffice. This… lingering in perfumed water, warm at that, allowing any… John's skin tingled where he rubbed the sponge against it.

In a life given over to denial of the body, that touch was an unexpected sensation. It felt good. It was… Suddenly horrified by his body's reaction, John threw the sponge out of the tub. For long minutes, he sat hip deep in water, panting and cursing Brother Rodney. Somehow, John knew this… this accursed sensuality, was all the good brother's fault.

***

John tugged at the collar of his new robe, certain he looked ridiculous in crimson. Besides which, it made the hairs on the back of his neck rise just thinking about how much he resembled a target. Rodney stood next to him in white; the fabric threaded with gold. John looked him over from head to toe. "Couldn't find a veil?"

"How long did it take you to think up that witticism, Brother John? All day?" Rodney pinched the fabric of his own robe. "As a matter of fact, these were the only suitable garments I could get on short notice, and we are lucky to have them." Rodney snorted. "Besides, how many times do I have to tell you – this is not a wedding, it is a cérémonie de affrèrement."

John smirked. "So, no veil."

They stood on the steps of the Varlaam Council chamber. John was grateful the proceedings required the principals to stand apart from the witnesses. He knew firsthand how quickly and silently a knife could slide between unsuspecting ribs; the attacker able to slip away unnoticed in the press of people.  
He scanned the gathering crowd with suspicion and declared they couldn't get this over fast enough to suit him.

"Will you please calm yourself," Rodney said, a slight edge to his voice. "This is supposed to be a gay, carefree occasion. I know it's not quite what you envisioned while you were busy slipping poison into my gruel, but do you have to be so twitchy about it?"

"I am not – twitchy. I'm uneasy with how all of this is…"

"Are you nervous?" Rodney interrupted, with a twinkle in his eye. "There, there, my fragile little flower, I'll take care of you."

Despite his years of discipline, John was sorely tempted to give McKay a good thwap on the back of the head. He settled for rolling his eyes instead. "I am not – the bride – remember?"

Rodney poked him in the chest, the long, open sleeves of his robe swaying with the movement. "Admit it, you did forget all about being nervous for a few minutes. This is going to work, John. Trust me. Oh good, here comes the magistrate now."

John took one look at the man who was about to perform their joining rites and swore under his breath.  
"What?" Rodney hissed. "Who is that? What happened to Magistrate Harri – ouch!"

"I'll tell you later," John hissed, as he elbowed Rodney in the side.

"Why, Brother John." A broad smile lit Magistrate O'Neill's face, but his eyes were dead serious. He leaned close and spoke too low for anyone else to hear, "A most clever solution to a rather… delicate problem."

John grunted, drawing his lips together in a tight line.

"Just so you know, I was never a supporter of the idea of eliminating Brother Rodney. I'm glad to see you found a way around it."

John swallowed hard. "Thank you." He bit back the Your Reverence, giving a respectful nod instead.

"Save your thanks for now – don't make the mistake of thinking the two of you won't be watched," the Magistrate continued. "This situation has my full attention, but at the first sign of the Word of Ascension reaching the masses, I won't be able to protect you."

O'Neill stepped back, rocked on his heels, and smiled as if greatly amused by the assemblage. From what John knew of O'Neill, he probably was.

"What's wrong?" Rodney asked from the corner of his mouth, smiling to hide his concern.

"Nothing is wrong, exactly. The Magistrate, here, is my former tutor," John replied.

"And by former, you mean when you were an assassin-in-training?"

"And by tutor," John replied, grinning, "I mean – Legendary."

"Now, now, boys. I never took care of anyone who didn't need it, and only then if there was no other way. I was just complimenting Brother John on his creative counter to the current problem."

"Your Rev—" John began.

"Just call me Magistrate," interrupted O'Neill.

"Magistrate. If you're officiating instead of…" John paused, uncertain how to continue. "Is this union –"  
"Legal?" O'Neill asked, smile as inscrutable as ever. "Well now, I believe you could say it's just as legal as mine and Daniel's."

***

The ceremony had gone off without a hitch – it was the celebration afterward that had John wishing he had eyes in the back of his skull. Drawing on every sense available to him had left him anxious but relieved beyond measure that they were now safely home.

Home. For years, the only home he'd known had been the cloister walls, vows of silence, and the travel and trade routes of his territory. Here, with Brother Rodney, that was still a concept that would take some getting used to.

Even though Rodney, too, had lived a monastic existence, he seemed much more acclimated to worldly pleasures. John did not begrudge Brother Rodney his thirst for knowledge. In truth, his heart envied him. The two of them had only been acquainted a short time and here they were now bound together as equals. That warm feeling surrounded his heart again. Just as with the moment in the courtyard when he knew his purpose had changed, John felt strangely complete.

He watched Rodney rummage among the clay jars. "What are you looking for?" he asked, just as Rodney pulled down a round, cobalt-rimmed jar.

Taking up his spoon, Rodney dipped it inside, swallowed whatever it was, and made a pained face in the process. "This is an elixir for soothing the stomach," he replied. "Probably one too many of those meat pies Radek provided."

John grinned. "I would say it was perhaps three too many of those rich pastries."

Brother Rodney gave a wave of his hand. "I was celebrating. How often does one get himself bound together in brotherhood, eh? And… you were counting? Of course, you were—you were taking note of every movement and sound. It near pained me to watch. You seemed wound tighter than an archer's bow."

"How good of you to notice. One of us needed to keep—"

"I had my eyes and ears open as well, my brother." Rodney fixed him with a stare. "Still, you must allow it was a wonderful celebration. A good time had by all… especially the minstrels and performers."

"Yes, those I had to watch doubly well."

Rodney stoppered the jar while John lit the tapered beeswax candles for the evening. Wisps of black smoke rose above the wick as the small flame stuttered to life.

"Everyone seemed to wish us well," Rodney said. "And the pretty knife dancer… Merciful Saints, that sword was almost as big as she was. Now that is a skill." He put the jar away, turned, laid a hand on his chest, and released a loud and largely disgusting belch. "It was a very good day," he said again, grinning.

John returned the smile. He just wished he'd been better able to enjoy it. With a poorly-stifled yawn, he took his blanket and straw pillow from the niche near the fireplace and made to prepare his bed. He had almost grown used to the floor; it was warm near the fire, and there were worse places to sleep, most of them he knew. This night, however, with O'Neill's words in his head, he only hoped sleep would come.

"John? What are you doing?"

"I thought I would go to sleep," he said. "Is there something wrong with that?"

"No… of course not. I just thought… you don't have to sleep on the floor, anymore." Rodney pointed to the bed, with its feather mattress and the decadent coverlet. "The bed is half yours, now," he declared, beaming.

John flicked his eyes first to the bed, then to Rodney, and wondered if he mightn't need a spoonful of the stomach concoction himself. "Are you sure?"

"Didn't you listen to the words of your own ceremony? Look around, what's mine is yours. Wasn't that the whole point of being joined?"

John had to admit, that was one contingency he hadn't planned. Tossing the blanket on one of the low stools, he brought his pillow to the bed. Rodney had already shed the ceremonial robe and climbed in.

"See, there's plenty of room."

Quickly, John pulled back the coverlet, trying not to enjoy the way the plush fabric felt, and slipped beneath it. It was much heavier than the coarse blanket he was accustomed to, yet he suspected it was Rodney who made the bed too warm. John turned, feeling Rodney's eyes on him.

"I suppose you've been told many times that fortune favors you," Rodney said calmly, as if he might be relating the news of the day.

John's chest tightened, but he made an attempt to smile through it. "If you think I have a pleasing countenance, Brother, you should just say so."

"It's not that I think it… you have. But even you must know that."

John didn't know what to say to that. Suddenly, it seemed very important that Rodney thought so. John scrubbed his hand over his chin, the fortnight's growth of beard prickling his palm. "I never paid much attention to—"

Before he could finish, Rodney reached out and put his hand over John's heart. For a moment, John's breath caught in his throat, but Rodney merely tapped at the stitched insignia on his robe. "This will work," he said in a reassuring tone. "Oh, we'll be watched, for many reasons, but I do not think we have any more reason to fear."

John wanted to believe that. The sincerity of Rodney's words almost made it sound possible.

"In the name of the holy Saints, John…" McKay's tone changed in the blink of an eye. "Why did you put this back on?"

"Habit," John replied, shrugging inside the familiar scratchy black wool.

"Well, no offense, husband, but it reeks." With that, Rodney turned over, taking his warm hand with him.

John swallowed a dry lump at the sight of those broad, half-naked, candlelit shoulders. If he touched, would that skin feel as sensual as it looked?

"Fair warning," Rodney grumbled into his pillow. "My half of that… thing is getting a good washing tomorrow and your half may as well come along for the ride."

John allowed himself a satisfied smile and tried to sleep, but the weight of his duty had his eyes opening at every creak and sigh. He sat up and looked around. It was the small things he now noticed.

The lantern, a gift to Brother Rodney from the village smith for treating a burn to his hand, bags of herbs and vials of unguents gifted to him from the local healer, the perfumed soaps from the miller's wife, and the coverlet. Crafted by a group of village women, it was a gift from the entire village in appreciation for the new water system. He took another long look at the man sleeping next to him… so willing to share his life with John and, now, his bed.

All John had to bring to the union was his robe and his dagger, yet, considering their situation, those were perhaps the most important additions. He swallowed hard and steeled his resolve, hoping against hope he'd have no need to use them. 

Earlier, the even cadence of Rodney's breathing had served to calm him, but as that gave way to persistent snoring, John sighed and sat up. Better that he had something else to occupy his mind, anyway. His new husband's bare shoulder peeking out from the coverlet provided one too many lustful thoughts. 

John eased out bed and immediately felt colder for it. Whether it was from leaving Rodney's warm side or this new battle against temptation, John chose not to examine it too closely. Instead, he fell back on the comfort of his training and, in the quiet darkness, began the first movements of the Lok'nel.

John stopped mid-stretch. Rodney was right; his robe did have a stench. Oh, not as bad as McKay made it out to be, but now that he'd called John's attention to it, he couldn't ignore it. He pulled the offending garment off over his head and tossed it out of his way. He rolled his shoulders, taking advantage of the freedom of movement gained by stripping down to his linen braies.

After the frustration and worry of watching Rodney's back all day, it was good to move. To feel the hard push of muscle in an elbow thrust and the burn of calf muscles as he crouched low in an attack position. Under the stars, he lost himself in movements made rote from years of practice, though no less deadly.  
As he finished the final pass of the Lok'nel, his skin sweat-sheened in the moonlight, John drew a satisfied breath. Now he could lie next to Rodney and sleep.

***

John woke up alone in the bed and knew immediately something was wrong. It was too quiet. Rodney should have been here – if not in bed with him, then at least puttering about or fussing over the kahve. John snatched up his robe and dressed quickly. Every instinct screamed at him to find Brother Rodney.  
The large herb garden behind the house was the most likely place to start. It wouldn't be the first time McKay forgot himself and rushed off to try some new combination of stems and leaves. On the side of caution, and in obedience to his gut, John decided to investigate with as much stealth as possible. He was oh, so glad he did.

The attack came from the side with the precision of an asp's strike, but John twisted away just in time. The knife missed his ribs, slicing across the folds of his robe instead.

"Betrayer! Heretic lover!" The voice was low and guttural. John was surprised the man was able to speak at all with the thick, nasty scar that ran across his throat. He was clad in peasant garb, but no farmer moved with that kind of stealth and skill.

"Who sent you?" John demanded. "The Protectorate?"

His attacker snarled and lunged at John, who avoided it easily.

"I know that move." John said. "And I know which Order you crawled out from. On my honor, I swear Brother Rodney is no longer a threat. You need to leave us and spread the word."

John's words only seemed to infuriate the man.

"I am not here for that fool. Brother McKay has had the Word in his possession for months, with no will to take advantage of its power. He could control men. Be revered as a god! When I heard an assassin would clear my way, I knew my turn had come."

Spittle flew from his mouth in fury as he continued. "It is you who must pay. You should have killed him! Then I could have slipped in and stolen the book with no one the wiser." The man cocked his head, allowing the raised scar to shine in the morning sun. "You have come under his spell… you should take your dagger and use it to cut out your own heart. Infidel! Ascension is meant to be mine! I have sworn—you will pay dearly for that failure."

Not waiting for the next strike, John crouched low and swept the feet out from under his attacker. In a desperate, dangerous move, the man struck out with his blade, twisting as he fell. All John saw was the glint of the knife in the sunlight before the long, sharp edge caught him in the shoulder. Pushing aside the pain, John hauled the man up in a chokehold, disarming him before he could cause any more damage.

"I could kill you now, and arrange it so your body would never be found." John said, voice cold as ice. "The only thing keeping you alive right now is that I can use you." With the man's own knife to make his point, John pressed it against the villain's breastbone."You get one chance to run. One chance to tell your brethren that the Word of Ascension is out of their reach. Do this or die in pain." John stepped back, daring to release his hold.

Gasping for breath, eyes wide, the man staggered away from John.

"Go, before I change my mind." John watched with satisfaction as his attacker fled. Now he just had to get back inside and sit down, before the slowly spinning sky took that decision out of his hands, before Rodney knew anything had happened. He made it as far as the threshold.

"Dear Heavens! John?" Rodney came around the corner and dropped his bundle to the ground, quickly coming to his husband's aid. "What happened to… is that blood… when I left, you were still asleep. What kind of disaster have you gotten yourself into?"

"I could ask you the same," John mumbled, trying to clear his head.

"Of course." He gave a pointed look at his dropped bundle. "Because we both know how bloodthirsty Queen Anne's Lace is."

***

"Sit," Rodney ordered, steering John onto a low stool by the fire. He busied himself with getting the water pot over the fire and stoking it well with dry tinder, raising the flames and sending fragrant wisps of smoke out into the air. "You're filthy. Where have you been?"

John looked down and brushed some of the dirt from his robe. "You first."

"I went to the back garden for morning prayers," Rodney said, bringing over another pot of water. "Then I stopped to harvest some herbs."

"What are you fussing with?" John asked, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

"I need to clean you up so I can see the damage."

"But I just had a bath, and besides, this is a mere scratch. Believe me, brother, I've suffered much worse."

Rodney gave him an answering harrumph of displeasure. "Oddly, I find myself not surprised; however, it has been my experience that blood is usually a bad sign."

John went to remove his habit and winced. "Then just fill the tub with what you have. I am perfectly able to wash…"

"No." Brother Rodney's voice was clear and determined as he carefully helped John out of his robe. "Just sit there and – I know how this runs against all you know – but you need to trust me here. Let me take care of this."

Rodney's voice, measured and low, held an undercurrent of panic and worry. John was as astonished as he was certain of it.

"Do you? John. Do you trust me?"

He did trust this man he was now bound to by contract and sworn to protect by his own personal vow, and he had no will to argue – as if that would get him anywhere, anyway. "Yes," he answered softly. He'd seen close hand what McKay was like on a mission; no wonder the Protectorate was afraid.

Rodney's hands were gentle in their purpose, pushing the cowl forward over John's head and loosening the cords of the robe at the back of John's neck. He unfastened the belt and pulled it free, handling John's blade with care. "That's quite an impressive weapon for one of your Order. A little more ornate than I would expect."

John gritted his teeth and allowed Rodney to pull the robe over his head. "One of my own gifts, you might say." He shivered as the hem swept past his shoulders. When John looked up, Rodney seemed to be waiting, his hand held out, and fingers wiggling.

"Everything," he said.

Taking a deep breath, John stood up and shed his coarse undergarment. He noticed McKay's eyes dip briefly before coming back up to his, cheeks coloring as he helped John into the washtub. 

The gasp from Rodney was unmistakable as John turned his back and sat down. He closed his eyes against the burning in his own cheeks and pulled his knees into his chest.

Brother Rodney stepped away for a moment, returning with two buckets of water. "The cold first," he said and apologized. But John didn't even flinch as the bracing water raised his flesh into tiny pebbles.

"Now, this will be better." Rodney's shy smile peeked out, catching John by surprise, and he had to smile in return.

And it was better. Much better. The heated water swirling together with the cold felt like a caress and made John look at Rodney's hands before glancing away. He closed his eyes and allowed the warmth to lengthen his tight muscles and melt what was left of his resistance. Steam carried a strong scent upwards, but he didn't mind as much; he only protested out of principle.

"Is that necessary?" he asked.

"It's not soap. I've added a bit of calendula and rosemary oil to clean thoroughly and the cloth pressed to your shoulder is infused with yarrow. They can be a little overpowering when combined."

John bowed his head and took a deep breath. It really wasn't that bad. The strip of silk ribbon caught his eye. He ran a finger over the knot and thought of the look on O'Neill's face when he had laid it across his wrist.

"Saint's heart, John… a special star shines down on you, indeed." Rodney knelt down and sponged water over him again, and this time, directly on the wound, making John pull back at the unexpected sting. 

"Sorry, I should have warned you."

It was nothing really, and mostly for effect. He knew his injury was slight, something he would have paid no mind to otherwise, but it was nice having Rodney fuss over him. He smiled to counter Rodney's worried expression and played along. "Bad?"

"Well, I don't want to frighten you or anything – though somehow I think that would be like me roaring in the face of a lion – but if the blade had landed true, another inch or two to the right, 'twould be beyond my skills."

"Good," John replied. "Then ducking was the right move after all." He waited for a laugh that didn't come.

Rodney continued his task and John was glad for the quiet. He closed his eyes so he could commit the touch of Rodney's hands to memory, one to replace that of the ugly scar and gravelly voice. The hands moved over his body with care, certainly, but also with a familiarity that seemed more than just brotherly humanity – and then they were gone.

"Brother?"

"The bleeding is staunched, but you may need a more permanent solution. No doubt you'll do something foolhardy, like practicing the Lok'nel arts too soon, and get it bleeding again."

John's face warmed to think that Rodney had watched him. He looked around, but Rodney had gotten up and was once again pawing around at things on the shelf. Permanent solution? He wasn't sure he liked the sound of that.

Brother Rodney returned to his side with several items in hand. He pulled up the short stool, sat down, and laid out a small wrapped bundle, a brown jug, and a strap of worn leather.

John nodded, indicating the assortment. "If I may ask…?"

Rodney gave a half-smile. "I need to mend the wound. Here…" He poured a honey-colored liquid from the jug into a cup and handed it to John. "Drink this… ah, no argument… drink."

John drank, swallowing quickly. It burned his throat like fire, but left behind a calming contentment that spread even to his fingers and toes.

"Now, take this and bite down," Rodney said, offering John the leather strap.

"Why?

"You'll see the purpose soon enough. Bite."

John took it, but held onto it instead, and watched intently as Rodney threaded a coarse hank of thread through a curved piece of horn sharpened to a wicked point. "Not that I'm questioning you, but exactly do you propose to do with that?"

"For sewing the flesh," Rodney said simply. "The thread, as it were, is made from the intestines of various animals. Not sure which one this is – I do hope it's not cat – it's for holding your skin together as you heal."

"Hmm… and how many times have you done this… procedure?"

"Oh, well. Only once before."

John raised both eyebrows and set his mouth in a stern line.

"A farmer from beyond the village. Horrible accident – used up half my store of thread on that one." He looked squarely at John. "But I tell you honestly, nothing I did played a part in the man's death."

"Rodney, I am not a torn piece of sackcloth," John said, thinking he had let this go far enough. "Why don't you just wrap it instead and let's see how that works."

Rodney looked crestfallen. "You mean you don't want me to… what about infection?"

"I'm sure there's something in those jars of yours that can help."

"Well, yes, but—"

John caught McKay's eye. "Brother, I am grateful for your concern, but I could tell you stories about my deeds that would curl even your hair."

Rodney looked away as he picked up the sponge. "Of that I am sure," he said, his voice quieter now as he moved around to scrub John's back.

John leaned forward. It was foolish to pretend. Rodney had already seen and surely recognized the admonishments from John's own hand as well as the deeper sins of his past. "That feels good," he said as the sponge moved carefully, tracing the marks.

"Honestly, one stitch, two at the most, would hardly have hurt," Rodney grumbled. Yet throughout his protests, he continued the bathing, treating John's skin with a reverence he himself denied it. The water and the movement of Rodney's hand had become almost soporific, giving John the feeling that more than grime was being washed away.

"The sponge is good for ridding one of too many cares, as well as too much dirt," Rodney said finally, as if he'd been able to hear John's thoughts. "I got it from Radek. It's said to have come from the waters surrounding the Lost City."

John managed to work up a genuine smirk for that. "The Lost City is but a myth," he said dismissively.

"Maybe so," Rodney allowed, "but it sounds intriguing, doesn't it? I don't doubt it puts quite a few coins in the good merchant's coffers." He began to trace the longer scars, but this time with his bare hand.  
Their eyes met as John turned to him. Rodney's hand strayed lower and something passed between them that John wanted to immediately embrace and push away at the same time. He licked his lips as Rodney leaned closer and then, as if waking from a dream, Rodney pulled back.

"Stand up," he ordered smartly. "Almost done. Then we'll get a bandage for that shoulder, you'll at least allow me…"

John stood. There was something else sure not to escape McKay's notice. He had tried to stop it, but there had been no use. The warm water, Rodney's hands moving over his body – John could hardly deny the effect.

As John turned around, Rodney's eyes grew darker. Not in judgment, John thought. Lust, perhaps. Or passion – that same passion he seemed to put into everything else. Rodney swept the sponge over John's stomach and then down each thigh. Coming so close to… dear Heaven, harboring such desires was going to be the end of him for sure.

"One bread, one wine, one purse…" Rodney murmured, repeating a line from their ceremony, his attention fully fixed on his task. "Do you think that means one flesh as well, as in the traditional vows? Not that either of us is the wife, obviously, but…"

Those blue eyes turned up to John. There was such longing there it made John's chest ache, canceling out any thoughts of injuries or even rogues hell-bent on revenge.

He shivered, but not with cold. More urgent was the way his heart was beating – so fast and so hard, it superseded his need to breathe. Rodney's words, that look, had left John struggling mightily with himself to shut down, employ his disciplines, and draw into that place inside where he allowed no pain or joy to enter.

But there was a part of him that seemed to have a will of its own, and it was exercising that will now, crowding words at the back of this throat, and making him shake with his battle.

"Do you mean we…"

Rodney ran his fingers slowly up to cage John's naked hips. "Only if that is something you would want," Rodney's eyes flicked to John's shoulder, leaving the question hanging in his gaze.

John nodded. A hot flush stung his skin as he wet his lips and watched Rodney sponge more water over him, and caress him with slick, bare hands. Hands that touched him now in a very different way. Gentle fingers over the tender flesh of his sac, a firm grip around his cock, and wave after wave of pleasure rolling over him like rough surf, building with each stroke until he felt he could bear it no longer.

He reached for Rodney… to stop him or help him, he could no longer be certain. It shocked him at how bare and open he had allowed himself to become before this man. And while Rodney's touch was gentle, there was a certain practiced feel to it that had John imagining Rodney touching himself in the same way.

"There is a small… just here…" Rodney circled his thumb over a spot just beneath the head. "Can you feel it?"  
Oh, merciful god… yes, he could feel it. When Rodney showed him again, John tipped his head back and let his eyes fall shut. He wished for it to go on forever, but his body was too busy obeying its natural course, hips moving as if some foreign source had control of him, and then the familiar tightening in his groin. He almost thought to fight against it, but the release came anyway, with a warm rush of pleasure that shook him deep.

After a moment to regain some of his composure, he looked down. "Rodney, I—"

"It seems to work even better when," Rodney cleared his throat, "not self-inflicted."

John shook his head and grinned at the thought of Rodney finding something educational in what they had just done. John had meant to apologize for his awkwardness, but Rodney didn't seem to care.

"Would you like to do that to me?" he asked. There was a painfully shy note in his voice that didn't match his eyes.

John couldn't even nod his head; he'd thought of little else since seeing Rodney in the bath. Going on instinct, he pulled Rodney up and began to remove his garments – the belt, the scapular, then the tunic.

Rodney slid the undergarment away from his hips. What he'd told John about the sponge must be true, for Rodney's skin was smooth, the color of the first cream of the day. He wanted so much to run his hands over that skin, to feel the muscles he could see, and finally, to touch the growing length nestled between Rodney's legs.

Wide eyed, he watched as Rodney took himself in hand and stroked. Once, twice, until his shaft jutted from his body proudly. "No," John said, pushing his hand away. "I want…" He wasn't even sure how to ask.

But Rodney needed no prodding and stepped into the tub with John. Carefully, John closed his hand around the hard length, and taking the sponge in his other hand, squeezed it, raining down the scented water so he could wash Rodney in like manner.

The warmth and weight of Rodney's cock set John's heart racing again just from the feel of it in his hand. Seeing Rodney's eyelids flutter gave him the confidence to explore, feeling the play of muscle as Rodney moved against him. Still, John wanted more.

He hurriedly patted Rodney's skin dry, then knelt in the tub, putting his face so near he could feel the heat of Rodney's passion. In his mind, he saw images of things he had only heard spoken of before. With his pulse pounding in his ears, John placed his mouth on the smooth, hard shaft, the responding low moan shuddering through him. If a thumb felt good, surely…

John's breath quickened as he flicked his tongue over the swollen head. Hot, smooth, he concentrated on the same spot Rodney had shown him, and from the hitch in Rodney's breath, it must have, indeed, been ecstasy. Then Rodney's hands were pulling him – expecting him to stand.

"Have I done something wrong?" John asked, immediately thinking of his Order's penitential rites and what form of retribution he might have to offer for his offence.

Rodney smiled and cupped his cheek; he looked a bit lost. "No… I only wanted…"

He reached for Rodney's arm just as warm lips met his. Dry and tentative at first, it still stopped John from breathing for a moment. When Rodney pulled back, John wanted to answer the question in his eyes. Wanted to say it was all right. Wanted to say, 'Yes, more,' but the words would not come. Through sheer desire or saints' aid, something seemed to push him forward until they were kissing again. He curled one fist in Rodney's hair and held on. It was a dance far beyond John's experience and he had no weapon against it.

Rodney took the sponge, dipped it again, and let the water flow over both of them, then guided himself between John's wet thighs. He held John up against his belly, moving between them so that the movement stirred the sensitive skin of John's private regions.

John held him tightly and tried to catch his breath as Rodney embraced him, adding even more friction. Heavenly Saints, this way he could gaze into Rodney's eyes and see his own pleasure reflected back. Foreheads pressed together, mouths so close they shared the same breath – harsh, warm gusts in his face as Rodney began to move faster, it all had desire coursing through him once more.

As John was long past rational thought, he crushed their mouths together again as Rodney thrust one last time and held there. John's hands were full of soft, damp skin as their kiss deepened, and then the room seemed to spin out of control again, taking him with it. All he could think was this was real. He could have this. Rodney was his.

The next moment – though he would admit not recalling how or when they had gotten out of the tub – he was standing before the bed wrapped in a warm blanket.

"…and watch that shoulder," Rodney was saying. "Get dressed and get into bed. I'll make you some tea."

He held the blanket around him a moment longer, listening to Rodney's bustling, waiting. Waiting for something or someone to reveal it had all been a dream. What he heard was more grumbling about him catching his death. Oh, this was definitely no dream.

His robe was stained so the only thing left to him was his braies. He took the small clothes, slipped them on, and got into bed. Even though he tried to deny it, the coverlet felt decadent against his bare skin. For that matter, he felt decadent, and allowed himself a smile at the thought.

Rodney returned with a steaming cup, which John happily took from him. The liquid was the color of pale mud; its pungent aroma made John wrinkled his nose.

"Go on, it will warm you," Rodney said, sitting on the bed. He was naked but for the cloth loosely rumpled around his waist.

John sipped as Rodney fussed with the bandages. The tea wasn't the worst thing he'd ever tasted, but he'd drink a gallon of it if only to watch Rodney as he worried over him. "It's hot on the tongue."

"That's the clove," Rodney muttered. He crushed some herbs from his bag between his fingers, put them on the bandage, and rubbed a few drops of oil into them, releasing the scents of the herbs.

"You are fortunate this was only a nick," he said, laying the herbs on the cut. It stung, but John said nothing, just took another sip of his tea while Brother Rodney wound a long strip of cloth around his shoulder and up under his arm until he was satisfied. "As it is, it may be painful for a few days."

Rodney took John's cup and returned his supplies to the shelf. John watched him; he wasted no time coming back to climb into bed – without a stitch. "An old custom," he explained, "Increases the body heat."

That didn't surprise John at all; he leaned into Rodney a little, savoring the touch of their bare skin.

"'Tis a shame we had to give the ceremonial robes back so soon," Rodney said, putting an arm around John and pulling him close. "Of course, I suppose no one really plans on being attacked. I'll see about mending your habit tomorrow."

"I let him go," John said, reluctant to thrust them back into reality. He was confident Brother Rodney knew of whom he was speaking.

"I truly thought the ceremony would fix things. Is this the way it will be? Looking over our shoulders every minute?" Rodney asked.

John was certain Rodney knew the answer to that as well. He didn't want to think about any of it, but finally answered, "I fear it so. We must leave this place."

"There is something puzzling me…" Rodney mused, not even questioning what John said. "If this man was after me… I was right there in the courtyard. He surely must have seen me. Then I walked down to cut more herbs for—why did he wait until …" He looked down at John, his eyes wide. "He wasn't after me… he was after you! But why? Why would one of your own have orders to…?"

"He was a rogue, even by Athar's standards. Out for his own chance at godhead." He looked up to meet Rodney's eyes. "There will be others."

"I know." Rodney reached across and pulled the coverlet up higher, then laid his hand over John's.  
"Because you have chosen to protect me as well as the Word of Ascension."

His vows and his duty had always been sacred, but with his failure to carry out his directive, everything had changed, not to the point of throwing out his training or his teachings, but Rodney had given him a different cause. John no longer believed the Protectorate or the Congregacio were interested in the welfare of all.

He said nothing; there was no need. The weight of it sat between them like a pall. Turning his head, the he imagined Rodney's skin a shelter, soft and warm, and he wished he could stay there forever.

***

"Oh good, you're awake."

John's head felt as if it had been stuffed inside one of the kitchen jars. "I—how…" Adrenaline burned through his veins and roused him fully awake.

"I laced your tea with a little something," Rodney said, sounding almost too proud of himself. He was across the room stuffing small linen sacks into a larger one. "You needed the rest and that shoulder needed to be stationary, even if only for a few hours."

John looked around. It was late afternoon judging from the light. Most of the jars were missing from the shelf, the banked fire was smoldering, and the brewing pot and bag of kahve were nowhere to be seen.  
"What are you doing?"

"Exactly what it appears."

"You appear to be packing."

"Excellent! You haven't lost your ability for keen observation, I see." Rodney gathered a couple more clay pots from the shelf and stuffed them in the sack as well. "You said yourself—we need to leave. What's more, my actions are now responsible for you being in danger. I can't say I like that much." 

Rodney tied the cloth bundle and came over to sit on the bed. "Let's have a look," he said, unwrapping the bandage. "Ah, the sage and lemon balm are doing a fine job. Consider yourself fortunate – I don't always use lemon balm. Too much exposure and I break out in a rash, but since you were being such a baby, it was necessary."

John looked down where bits of herb clung to his skin. The skin was mottled and pink around the slash like a halo. Not at all what he had expected. This was quite different from the last injury he had received in the line of duty.

"It looks good," Rodney said, pressing the bandage back into place. "But it would be best for you to wear this poultice a few days more."

John scrunched up his nose. "Good idea, the only thing any would-be assassin will need is a keen sense of smell."

"How does it feel?" Rodney asked, clearly dismissing John's sarcasm.

It was sore, the bandage inconvenient, but saying that might sound ungrateful, and he was more than grateful for Rodney's attention. Much more. "Fine," John replied. At least he could be truthful about how it felt to have Rodney's hands on him again.

"And, I'll have you know, I am not completely unable to defend myself. Possibly, I could even be vicious."

"With words, maybe," he said, watching the concentration in Rodney's face as he rewrapped the bandage. He was sure Rodney would be no match for whomever the Order chose to send next.

"For that matter, neither am I unarmed." Rodney pulled a long, thin blade from a woven sheath fastened to his belt. One John was sure he'd never seen before.

"Where did you get that?"

"From that minstrel," McKay replied, with a gesture John couldn't quite figure out. "The tall one with the… hair and the deep voice. You know, the one with the odd adornment on his skin? He said it was a gift."

John threw back the bedcover and sat up. "And you didn't think that was suspicious? It could have been a ruse; he could have…"

"I thought it odd was all," Rodney said defensively. "But not nearly as odd as him pulling it from his… from that mass of hair, sheath and all… so you see, there is no need for your worry."

John rubbed at his temples. Oh, how he wished that were true.

"Of course, I see the significance now, which is why we should leave immediately. We'll have the cover of night soon, and I have a new need to put this village and the reach of the Protectorate far behind us."

Rodney squeezed his hand. "Come, we have a long journey ahead of us."

John knew Rodney was right, though he had to wonder if they would ever be beyond that reach. He looked at Rodney, turning a thought over in his mind. "Why not leave the book, let them think they have what they want. You have the knowledge in that brain of yours. You live it; you would still be able to share it."

Rodney stood up. "I don't believe what I'm hearing. Are you so eager to be shed of the Protectorate you would give in to them?"

"As you said, Brother, what's yours is mine. I think that gives me a say in what we do."

"It would if the Word of Ascension belonged to me. Yes, this book is in my possession, by Abbott Woolsey's grace, the same grace I am sure he will allow with regard to the others, but the knowledge belongs to everyone."

John got out of bed and followed on Rodney's heels back to the table. "And you intend to make sure it gets to the rightful owners, don't you? Knowing what O'Neill said about… wait, did you say others? And what do you mean a long journey? Journey to where?"

"Back to the abbey, of course, to retrieve the other volumes."

"There are other volumes? McKay!" The look on Rodney's face confirmed John's worst fears. "By all the Saints, that is not only mad, that's… suicide. We may as well march up the steps of the Protectorate and give ourselves over."

"On the contrary," Rodney said, handing John his mended habit. "I have a secret weapon."

"Name it."

"You. I have faith in you and in the abbot."

"But that is a full day out of our way. I know routes that would take us to a safe place—we could then send a messenger back with the book. We could be free from the Order and—"

"John? Can't you see that would change nothing? They would still be after you because of what you know, because of your association to me. And on the chance you have forgotten, half of that danger is now mine as well."

"Don't pretend you're doing this for me… I never said you had to fight my battles."

Rodney stopped what he was doing and shook his head. He stepped over to John and took his hand, then leaned in for a kiss. It was a kiss full of promise that had John chasing after it when Rodney pulled away.

Rodney smiled. "I never said I had to, either. Now, we have miles ahead of us, and we will be imminently safer once we're on the outskirts of town – provided we don't intercept one of your brethren along the way."

John no longer cared what form his protection might need to take. Even if it took his last breath, Rodney would come to no harm. Reluctantly, he released his grip on his husband's robe. "I trust I won't need to remind you to stay behind me."

***

It was Rodney's idea to enter the abbey in broad daylight. Every nerve John possessed was appalled at the idea, but he had learned quickly that arguing with McKay was a fruitless line of attack. He was as stubborn as the abbot's mule.

"Trust me, John. All the brothers will be attending the services, without exception. Today is the solemnity of Lantea Rising – a holy day of obligation. Only the abbot can grant dispensation and he won't, not without requiring penitence. It is our good fortune the repository is nowhere near the chapel."

"You are that sure?"

Rodney cleared his throat, "Possibly, once or twice, I may have been a little distracted and missed… Anyway, suffice to say, Abbot Woolsey has a vile sense of humor. Can you believe he made me teach the village children one whole summer?"

Inside, the abbey was a labyrinth of stone walkways and arches, but Rodney was right, they'd not seen one monk as they made their way to the repository.

While he helped Brother Rodney with packing the books, John was on full alert. He could hear the echoes of soft footfalls and knew they were not alone. Not wanting to raise an alarm unless he had to, John scanned the deepest shadows.

With a tilt of his head, the abbot's spectacles glinted off the light from the wall sconce above his hiding place, allowing him to be seen. They shared a look. Rodney's back was turned, and because John was holding the bindings while Rodney stacked yet another volume, he realized he didn't have a hand free for his blade if all of the abbot's cooperation proved to be a trap.

John's instincts were already at the edge, priming him to spring into action if need be, but Woolsey only gave a nod, and… was that a wink? Then he was gone. John blew out a breath and swallowed his heart back into place.

"…hate putting Abbot Woolsey in this position," Rodney was saying. "If the Protectorate deems fit, they could level the abbey and destroy this beautiful library searching for these."

John grinned. "I would not worry too much about that, Brother."

"Oh? And I suppose you have no regrets in leaving?"

Helping Rodney hoist the heaviest bundle onto his shoulder, John replied, "Let's just say I have faith in Brother O'Neill and trust he'll take care of the abbot. He is not alone, you know."

Brother Rodney nodded, but John thought he still looked wistful. Rodney held out his hand to the doorway. "After you," he said. "I can't believe I'm absconding with the most important teachings known to man under the protection of a crippled assassin who is more challenged by direction than I am."

John stopped and curled his hand around Rodney's wrist. Satisfaction spread through him as his fingers brushed over the silk affrèrement bindings his husband still wore. "We can be thankful then the injury wasn't to my knife hand. That aside, I thought you said you had faith in me."

"That was before you got us lost."

"Me? This is your abbey."

"Yes, one I have been away from for…"

"Rodney," John said, tracing the curve of his lower lip, amazed at how Rodney's eyes softened under his touch. "You are as safe with me as if you had ten of my Order accompanying you."

Leaving under the late afternoon sun was a risk, though one they had no choice but to take. John had just tucked the bed coverlet around their prize, shifting a few of the jars to make room in the cart, when he turned sharply at footsteps behind them. He had his dagger fully out of its sheath in seconds, but Rodney was just as quick and took his arm.

"It's all right. I think that Brother, uhm…" Rodney squinted and waved a hand toward the tall, robed monk who stood silently a few paces away. "I am sure this is only added security until we have passed the abbey gates."

The man filled out his robe well enough, solid, squared shoulders implying great upper body strength. Still, it was a chance.

"What did you call him?" John asked.

Another hand wave. "I—Brother Malcolm, I think. I'm no good with names. He worked with me in the scriptorium." Rodney looked over and gave the monk a pained smile before patting their burro on its hindquarter and starting out across the dusty courtyard.

"I may have… I can't be sure, but I may have reduced him to tears a few times… out of frustration, vows of silence notwithstanding."

John looked back as Brother Malcolm, silent as death itself, dutifully took step with them. "He might want revenge for that alone."

Rodney favored him with the same aggrieved smile. "Thank the Saints, at least I am bonded to someone with a healthy sense of humor. So tell me, what else are you good at besides dispatching people… sending them to their maker?"

John bristled at the remark. What had seemed noble once sounded hollow and ugly coming from Rodney. Or was that just an echo of his own change of heart? "I used to work the apiaries at Menara. I know how to keep bees and produce honey and wax."

"That might be kind of nice… find a farm on the outskirts of a rather large town. Honey and wax… that could be a lucrative venture."

"Am I to understand we are abandoning the vow of poverty altogether?"

A smile widened across Rodney's face. "I was never fond of that particular vow. Could never see the value in it." At the roll of John's eyes, he grew more serious. "Very well, it could be a small town. We'll produce just enough for the two of us and the villagers. Perhaps that will render us all but invisible to your Order."

John shook his head and walked a little closer. "I'm sure there aren't enough favorable stars in the sky to answer that prayer, but as long as you can find a way to quietly change civilization for the good, we just might make it."

"One step at a time, dear husband. Pray the Saints grant us a lifetime." He glanced at their escort and then looked down at his feet as they walked, shoulder bumping against John's. 

When they reached the gate, Brother Malcolm walked ahead to open it for them. "Go in peace, Brothers," he said softly as John and Rodney passed through.

"The question is," murmured John. "Where do we go?"

"I'd go with you over the rising moons and back if you asked me," Rodney said, eyes dancing in the shadow of his cowl.

A slow smile of delight teased at John's mouth as he reached to pick up the reins. Danger might lie behind or ahead of them, but so did the promise of their new vows, and John had never felt more contented or alive in his life.

"Um, John…" Rodney prodded. "The moons are this way."

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> It was an utter delight to work on this story with Neevebrody and she gets a heartfelt thanks from me for allowing me the privilege to do so.


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